


What Dreams Are Made Of

by WigglyBoi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Humanstuck, Incest, Multi, Other, Parent/Child Incest, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WigglyBoi/pseuds/WigglyBoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't know how it happens.  You don't know why.  The only thing you really know is that you are really, truly, absolutely fucked.  The worst part is, you don't even know how to potentially un-fuck the situation without ruining several lives and possibly even causing World War III.  </p><p>Or, Rose loves her Mom.  More than she should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dreams Are Made Of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daxolotl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daxolotl/gifts).



> i was given the following prompt: "Mom/Dolorosa and Rose/Mom/Dolorosa, with Rose's feelings either being unrequited and secret, or being returned. I'd love to see a story where Mom and Dolorosa are in a relationship and are raising Rose together, focused on Rose discovering that she has feelings for her mothers; be it a slow growth over the course of years, or a sudden realisation in a single moment. The setting is open, with a slight preference towards either a modern AlterniEarth AU, or a fantasy universe."
> 
> hope this satisfies!

You don’t know how it happens.  You don’t know why.  The only thing you really know is that you are really, truly, _absolutely_ fucked.  The worst part is, you don’t even know how to potentially un-fuck the situation without ruining several lives and possibly even causing World War III. 

You tell this to your brother, and naturally he trumps your hyperbole with some large and irrelevant metaphor.  Along with being your only confidant, he is also your least helpful one. When you inform him of this fact, he reminds you that this means he’s your most helpful one as well, which you feel further exhibits your point.  Nevertheless, talking to him does help you feel better at least.

TG: #thatawkwardmoment when you have a thing for one of your moms

TG: if you tweet that make sure you @ me though

Because you’d definitely tell all 46 of your dedicated followers about your inappropriate incestuous infatuation. Cue exaggerated eye rolling.

TT: #ThatAwkwardMoment when your nuisance of a brother won’t actually assist you with the issue at hand.

TG: i dont know dude i mean

TG: this isnt really something i can help you with

TG: i guess you have two options

TG: depending on your feelings

TG: one: suck it up and move on

TG: thats my personal favorite

TG: im not judging

TG: im just being honest when i say that this so. so. fucked up. on so many levels.

TG: and not to mention illegal

TG: but im sure you know all of this already

TG: so that brings us to option two which is to somehow make your feelings known

You consider his advice.  He’s right on all counts, of course.  But you’ve spent so much time trying option one; it seems like you’ve been ignoring and repressing more than enough emotions. 

You’re sick of pining; you spend hours upon hours wrapped in her scarf, inhaling her scent and just _imagining_ what it would feel like to hold her this close, not in the way a daughter would, but the way a lover would.  You’re done staring at the ceiling, dwelling on her soft hair or the way she knows just what to say to passive-agressively piss you off yet turn you on.

The decision was made long before Dave gave you any options.

TT: I’ll take option two for 500, Alex.

TG: that was awful and corny and im never talking to you ever again

***

Despite his complaints, he does talk to you again. And yet again. And again after that. The two of you spend a lot of time discussing your predicament, and how to combat it.  After solidifying your plans, you’re eager to put them into motion.

It starts on a Friday evening, after she’s home from work. She’s lying on the couch, watching a soap opera? Maybe? No no, it’s a Lifetime movie. You think.

You’ve been in your room all afternoon, waiting for your Mother to leave for the grocery store.  For the second time in two days.  You may or may not have been hoarding food in your room as a part of your plan.  The details are hardly relevant.

With an attempt at casual, you saunter down the stairs and into the living room where your Mom is.  She looks away from her show, smiling at you and saying, “Rosie! You’re not holed up in your room for once!” 

Ignoring the pang of indignant teen angst, you say, “I wanted to be with you, Mom. Can I sit with you?” You gesture to the couch she’s currently sprawled across.

“Oh of course, baby!” She sits up and starts to make room for you, patting the space beside her.

You sit down, closer than you normally would, and ask, “What are we watching?”

She directs her own attention to the TV screen, explaining the long and convoluted plot of the movie.  For the record, you were right, it was Lifetime.  As she talks and as the movie continues, you inconspicuously inch yourself closer so that you’re kind of laying across her lap.

You haven’t cuddled like this since you were a child; the proximity makes your heart race, and you have to consciously control your breathing to not draw attention to yourself.  This becomes even more of an issue when she starts stroking your hair, gently caressing it and tucking it behind your ear.

Occasionally she sighs, murmuring things like, “My sweet baby Rosie,” and, “My precious little girl.”

The two of you remain like this until your Mother gets home and requests assistance with the groceries.

***

This becomes a regular thing for you both.  As soon as you hear your Mother’s car leave for the grocery store or book club or some other destination, you emerge from your room and go downstairs where your Mom is waiting for you, ready to start the next random movie.

You don’t exactly know why, but you feel approximately 8.l2 million times more comfortable doing this when your Mother is out of the house. It’s not like you and your Mom are doing anything inappropriate.  You suppose you just like your personal space?  It’s weird.  Kind of like this entire situation.  Oh yeah.

Eventually, you know you have to enact Phase II of your plan. It’s the important phase, the one that requires the most courage, and strength, and perseverance. It happens towards the end of one of your cuddle sessions, as the credits are rolling.

“Mom?” you say, rather shyly.

“Yes Rosie-posie,” she replies, looking down at you in her lap. “What’s wrong, honey bunny?”

You hesitate, but only for a moment. “I love you.”

She smiles softly, saying, “I love you too, baby girl,” and tucking your hair behind your ear.

Inwardly, you ugh very loudly.  Outwardly, you tell her, “No, Mom.  I love you like-” Why is it so hard to spit this out???? “I love you like you love Mother.”

You give her a moment for it to sink in.  You watch a few different emotions flicker through her eyes. She starts to say something about how the Oedipus/Electra complex applies in same-sex families, but you effectively cut her off, pressing your mouth to hers.

It isn’t a sloppy kiss, nor is it aggressive.  It’s soft, chaste, intimate, and short lived; you don’t give her much time to respond, only enough to process what’s happened. You pull away, expecting the worst.

Instead of yelling or pushing you off of her, she sighs heavily, pressing her forehead to yours.  You feel her breath intermingle with yours as she says, “Rose. I know this isn’t okay. You know that too.” She opens her eyes and stares at you, intense pink meeting soft lavender. “But I’ve wanted this too.  I’m an awful, horrible mother, and I hope you wont think too badly of me for not stopping you.”

Taking your head in both of her hands, she kisses your forehead, both of your cheeks, then finally your lips in a way reminiscent of the soft manner from before, yet with an underlying passion that wasn’t there before. She pulls away all too soon, telling you in a pseudo-stern manner, “We’re going to take this slow. And I have to tell your Mother.”

*** 

Telling your Mother wasn’t such a bad thing.  The three of you actually manage to create something healthy, loving, and good. You’re happy, and that’s what’s important.

 

**Author's Note:**

> get your cliché bingo cards out for this one lmao. also sorry i have no clue how to format pesterlogs ;n;


End file.
